Last revised: 7/2/15

Glossary:

Arigato: Thank you

Bakayarou: An extremely crude and insulting thing to call someone in Japanese (my thanks to Kuja-ichi)

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Four.

Four miles out from the nearest sign of civilization, the earth lays naked and green beneath the sky. The air is so quiet here. So peaceful. The only sounds to be heard are the crickets in the rustling grass and the cries of birds soaring overhead. It is just the sort of place we'd been hoping to find.

Four.

Four hours we'd labored beneath the sun. Our chests are heaving and our muscles ache. The clanging of metal striking the earth echoes in our ears and the soil clings to our sweaty skin. By now the sun has sunk down toward the horizon and the land burns orange in its wake.

Four.

Four times we'd repeated this process. Measure. Dig. Measure. Dig. Measure one last time, just to be sure. Then, together, we lower our precious cargo down into the pit. Then we fill the earth back in and step a few feet beside to begin the process all over again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I watch quietly as Aoshi-sama hammers the last stone down into the earth. I feel so tired. So old. It feels as if I had aged ten years in the span of these four hours. Every cell of my body is weary and spent and yet my spirit feels strangely at rest. Beneath the ache of physical exhaustion, there is peace. A tranquility like the sea after a storm.

Aoshi-sama pauses for a moment and turns his face halfway towards me. His expression is as blank and unreadable as it ever was.

But I can tell he feels exactly the same as I do.

At long last, Aoshi-sama rises to his feet and backs up slowly until we are standing side by side. He does not look at me. He does not speak a word. And neither do I. The sun beats down on us still, but quiet resolution settles over us like falling snow.

Four.

Four gravestones. Four fresh mounds marking the final resting places of our beloved comrades.

Shikijo-san. Beshimi-san. Hyottoko-san. Han'nya-san.

One. Two. Three. Four.

My gaze rises towards the horizon. Birds circle across the open sky, trilling blissfully after the sun. Aoshi-sama said it himself - that our friends ought to be buried in a place with more sunlight.

And here we are. At the perfect place. A place where the sun will shine on them forevermore.

"Ah … a-arigato, Aoshi-sama," I whisper.

I hear him inhale. Exhale. "Ah."

"I … I am grateful to have shared this task with you. I am happy that I could have … that we …" I swallow. "Ah. Arigato."

"Ah."

"I … never did get the chance to say goodbye to them, you know. I would have given anything for the chance to thank them one last time. For everything. And now, having done this … I feel like … I can finally …"

I can't speak anymore. The tears are spilling over, drowning every word.

I clench my fists and sob quietly, feeling my pent up grief roll through me in waves. It hurts. It hurts so bad, like my whole self is splitting open and spilling out. But it's also a release. I never did get the chance to mourn them properly until now.

I gasp as the pain of their loss overwhelms me and I fall to my knees with my face buried in my hands. My tears fall, sparkling, from between my fingers, splashing against the fresh soil as if to sink down through the earth and carry all my love to where they lay.

I'm aware of a sturdy pair of hands grasping my shoulders, holding me tightly. Aoshi-sama. Even now as my heart tosses and turns in an ocean of grief, it is somehow lucid enough to trill at this unusual show of tenderness. My trembling stills as I feel the strength emanating from his grasp and I know that Aoshi-sama will not let me fall. With a shaky sigh, I lean forward and let the pain pour out of me.

The sun passes over us. Afternoon gives way to the evening. The coolness of the night sweeps over us as we kneel there upon the earth. As the agony of my grief slowly ebbs into numbness, Aoshi-sama doesn't loosen his grasp by a single degree.

He never lets me go until my tears finally run out.

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Two years pass …

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Malay Street, Singapore

13thyear of the Meiji

"Ohoho! Lookie there! Come on over here, my little lovely."

The girl grits her teeth and fixes her eyes ahead as she walks on through the crowded street. She knows that voice. It's that drunk bum who always hollers at her whenever she goes out during the day. She hears him whistle but refuses to look at him. Instead she wraps her thin cloak tighter around her frail frame and continues on her way.

Fruit boxes fill the surrounding stalls, overflowing with the lush colors of summer harvest. A woman takes one look at the girl and twists her nose in revulsion. Then she grabs her small child by the arm and hurries off in another direction.

The girl is quite used to that.

Inching closer, she peruses the fruit on display. Her mouth waters in longing. And there in the corner are five orbs of vibrant orange. Persimmons. Her little sister's favorite.

She reaches forward and takes one in her hand. The skin feels so smooth in her palm. The sweet fragrance of the fruit fills her nostrils and her stomach gurgles in response.

Surely she could afford just one. It would make her sister so happy.

She glances up at the shopkeeper. "How much?"

The man names an obscene amount that makes her want to fling the fruit back in his face.

"That is absurd," she snaps.

"Mine are the finest in the city. Worth every dollar." His eyes roam callously over her, fixing themselves on her breasts. "You can't say you don't make ten times as much each night off of your goods, love."

The girl's arms fly up and cross themselves over her chest. She raises her chin indignantly. "Your goods aren't worth the dung they're grown on. I can find better fruit in a rubbish pile. Good day to you, sir," she spits.

She whirls around and marches away, moving on to the next stall. She'd just begun inspecting a small stack of apples when that familiar, lecherous voice fills her ears again.

"Come on, lovely. Don't be shy. I just want to have a little fun with you."

That's enough! She spins around, infuriated. But then her her eyes widen, aghast, when she sees the voice was never directed at her.

There, across the street, is the drunk brute. And he's got one of her sisters pinned up against the wall as he tries to force his mouth upon hers.

"Lin!" the girl cries. "You bastard, she isn't working! Get off of her!"

The drunk just laughs, tugging on his captive's kimono. "Why should I?" he yells back. "She's still a whore, ain't she? And I'm willin' to pay for her like any good customer."

"Stop!" Lin sobs, trying to wrench herself free. "Please stop! Leave me alone!"

"Lin!" The girl fights to push her way through the crowd, watching helplessly as the brute begins to drag her weeping sister into the alleyway. She whirls around at the uncaring passerbys, who bow their heads and pretend not to see. "Help!" she cries. "Someone! Please, help her!"

Then there is a blur, a smash, a cry of pain. The girl ducks just in time as the drunk goes flying over her head and crashes into the stall behind her.

Gasps ring out all along the street. People stop and stare in disbelief. The girl gapes at the incapacitated drunk, who lies insentient in a mess of smashed fruit and splintered wood on the ground.

Slowly, she looks turns back toward the spot where the drunk once stood. A bearish-looking man stands in front of her sister, his face half hidden by a mane of wild black hair. The man cracks his knuckles and smirks in the direction of the drunk, his eyes glinting with smug satisfaction.

All at once the man's ki - so potent she can feel it from across the street - washes over her in a wave so powerful it makes her tremble. This is the ki of a warrior. Of a seasoned fighter. It is ki the likes of which she had not felt in a long time.

She senses strength in this man. Tremendous strength. And a recklessness that naturally leans such strength towards violence. But there is also goodness. Goodness and integrity. This is a man who protects. Who defends.

The man's lips move. In the hushed silence that had fallen, his gruff mutter reaches her ears.

"Stupid bakayarou."

The girl gasps. This man is Japanese!

Hope surges through her as she had never felt. Kami has finally answered her prayers.

Her body moves on its own accord. She races toward the man, pushing past everyone who stood in her way. But the man does not see her. He has turned his back to her, placing a comforting hand on the shoulder of her still-trembling sister. His hair falls aside, revealing a single character painted the back of his jacket.

A Kanji character.

Aku.

Such a word ought to give her pause. Such a word means "evil." But no. This man's ki belies the meaning of that word. And in that moment her mind cannot comprehend any cause for uncertainty.

"Sir!"

The man turns around as the girl finally stumbles up to him. His eyes meet hers and widen in a jolt of shock.

"What the ... Weasel?"

The girl throws herself on the ground at his feet, gazing up at him pleadingly through tear-filled eyes.

"Please," she chokes out. "Please, you have to help me …"